Cleaning the World
by Annanova
Summary: Stan develops a drinking problem to deal with his cynicism. Kyle attempts to save him when the bottom of a whiskey bottle isn't enough to help Stan run away from his problems. T for suicide mentions, character death and abuse.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey guys, this is a little one shot I came up with when I was supposed to be sleeping (funny how that's when the best ideas come) So I thought on it a while longer as a sort of bed time story to myself, and figured I'd try to create it for you guys. It's long. I'm warning you now. But if you read, I'll love you forever. _

_Another warning, it's got suicide. So if that's something that bother's you, this really isn't the story for you. _

"The world is shit Kyle! The world's shit and so are you," Stan bellowed into my cell phone as I sighed and settled against my bed. It was too late for this... I couldn't deal with another one of Stan's moods, especially at seven-thirty on a school night. I'd just settled down on my bed with a good book before my phone began ringing incestuously. Stan wasn't the kind of person to give up, so I just decided it would be easier for both of us if I just answered the phone.

I had no idea why I stayed on the phone with him when he acted this way towards me. God knows I get enough of that crap from my mom. Don't get me wrong, part of me loved Stan – will always love him – but it just hurt so much to be near him now. He used to be the more fun one of the group. Always playing with his dog, always tackling anything that could carry a ball... but now... now all he did was get drunk. Though that wasn't the worst of it. I'd rather have him ruining his kidneys then spreading his Everything Is Shit philosophy. It depressed me, not to mention the rest of the civilization. Call me sick for deserting my friend when he needed me, but a person can only take being compared to shit for so long before they start to hate the whole situation.

"Stan, look I'm sorry I had to tell your parents about the whole whiskey thing." It was said out of obligation, not true remorse. I had to tell someone he was drinking his life away. He needed honest help, not whatever phycology he found lurking in the bottom of a glass bottle, and no one seemed to care about him the way I did. Everyone loved Stan, he got along with everyone, but no one loved Stan the way I did.

Stan always was the one out of our group that had the most outside friends. He never sat alone, for anything. Whether it be lunch or a school project he was never without a flock of awaiting students, attempting to take a shot at becoming his best friend. It only got worst when he became older – especially since this year since he won the scholarship to University of Colorado at Boulder for his skills with a football. I remember he called me the day he got the letter in the mail, he was screaming and rattling on about how he got into one of the best state colleges while I could hear his mother squealing and father cheerfully sobbing in the background.

"Kyle, you don't get my life!" Stan dragged me out of my happy reminiscing with his accusations. How could he claim that the person that stuck by his side for years – even after being treated like a total douche for the past several years – didn't **get** his life? My firsts clenched.

"I get that you've changed since you've started drinking! And I get that what you're doing is horrible for your body not to mention illegal. Do you **get** that Stan? You could be going to fucking jail. So kiss college with me goodbye." I hissed, and dug around my ass for the remote to my stereo. I hate to say it, but Stan's moods didn't really alert me the way he used to. But something I said caught my attention; I couldn't remember whether Stan's problems caused his drinking, or his drinking caused his problems.

"It's the only thing keeping me alive in this shitty world, do you want me to die?"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic." I pulled up the prize of the remote, and fiddled with it a second before my music blasted. Quickly, so Stan wouldn't know I wasn't giving him my full attention, I turned it down. That, and my mother had a deep hatred for Tween Wave bands. Stan was quiet, and I sighed, hoping he hadn't taken offense to my want for entertainment. "Hey... where are your parents?"

"My mom's going to pick up my dad so he can shit on me too. Fucking bastards wasted half the time too."

"That's not true." I defended Stan's father since I knew the words from Stan's lips were only so hurtful because he was anger with me. "He drinks, yeah, but not... not that bad." I was about to respond with how Stan actually was hitting the bottle more than his father but decided against it. Stan never once got violent with me, but lately he was just exploding at anything in sight. And with my small stature, I would never be able to hold him off if he went for me.

The thought of where Stan would even get alcohol entered my mind. All I knew was that it was in his bottom dresser drawer, and as I was searching for my scarf I felt something oddly cool and smooth against my fingers. I'd pulled it out before Stan could stop me, and stared at him disappointed. He'd tried to justify it the same way he was now – that he needed it to live and if I said anything I'd be killing him. I didn't take him seriously and immediately marched myself to the kitchen where Stan's mom seemed to be rooted. Mrs. Marsh had promptly asked my why I had a bottle of whiskey in my hand, and I replied that it was her son's. My super best friend froze in his spot, looking absolutely terrified. If it wasn't so serious, I'd find humor in how someone who towered at least two heads over his mother looked ready to shit himself on the spot. I pushed the half empty bottle into his chest and walked home before I could face his true wrath.

A bit of guilt consumed me, yes, but I knew that what I had done was for the best. If Stan continued his harmful habits there was no telling what wrong he could do. And not everything he did while he was intoxicated had the privilege of being undone. Before Stan ruined every relationship he had, his health, and not to mention his future it was my duty to save him.

"He's always pouring shit down his throat." Stan muttered, and was quiet a few more seconds. I was glad, thinking that I'd somehow gotten away from the four hour lecture about how shitty I was, the world was and he was. When I was about to excuse myself, he spoke up again. "I'm gonna do it Ky... I'm gonna kill myself."

"No, you're not." I pinched the bridge of my nose, a habit I picked up from him. This again? He threatened his life daily. It bothered me deeply at first. In fact, the first time Stan said it, he'd made me cry so badly that he hung up the phone and came to my house to comfort me. He hugged me, shushing me and lulling me into dreams where he was back to his normal self. But that was about a year ago. Since then, his threat had died greatly.

"Yes. I am." He sounded preoccupied, and I herd papers shuffling. My ears perked, and I muted my radio in order to pice together what Stan was going on the other end. My blood ran cold as I her a relieved sigh followed by metal clinking with metal. I assumed it was a key. My mind swam to what Stan would be doing with a key, and the only thing I could come up with was the safety box in his mother's bedroom. Ever since his father moved out she'd kept a gun in the bedside drawer, just in case the worst would happen.

"Stan...?" I asked, my voice suddenly hoarse. It couldn't be... that. He had to be locking the front door or something. Fuck if that didn't need a key, maybe they'd gotten a new lock recently.

"I'm hanging up now."

"Stan no! Wait!" I sat up from my lounging position on the bed, and pulled a jacked over my head, nearly tripping down the stairs as I tried to beat him. I was never good at races.

"For what? For you to tell me how shitty I am for drinking away everything? Or how shitty of a friend I am?" He laughed bitterly, as I considered reminding him that I **wasn't** the one called everything shit, but that wouldn't be the best.

"No, for your fucking best friend to come." I stuffed my feet into my sneakers and fished the keys to my car out of my backpack as I spread across the the driveway. Stopping to look in the bag would take too much time, I could run and look at the same time.

This seemed to make Stan pause, since his breathing steadied, so I decided I was going on the right track. "Stan... listen. You're my best friend dude, don't do anything we'll regret. Please, I'm coming over now. Just stay calm." Another pause. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen." Stan confirmed and my phone started beeping, indicating that our conversation was over whether I wanted it or not.

With that, I put the car into gear, and drove as quickly as possible. A part of me knew I should be calling an ambulance, his mother, or anyone who was better to deal with this than I was, but I just couldn't think. My mind went into survival mode. All I could connect was that Stan had a gun and a suicidal tendency, and that I was the only one who knew. The only one who knew he physically had the gun and idea, but also the only one who knew how to emotionally help him. No one knew Stan better than the boy who grew up with him.

It was sort of like the first time I saw him cry. Really cry. Like bawl his eyes out to me. I remember, we were arguing over something stupid that day and I'd said something about how ridiculous his hair looked. In truth it probably came out in jealousy. He had straight hair, while I still had a Jew-Fro. Suddenly, he slid down against the wall of my room and buried his head in his hands.

"Stan?" I remember asked gently, as he lifted his head to me. "I didn't mean it." The tears scared me. The quarterback wasn't supposed to cry.

"My parents are getting a divorce." He mentioned softly, and I herd his voice crack before going into sobs. I did the only thing I could think of, and sat next to him, pulling his head in my lap, hushing him gently. I pet his hair as he soiled my shirt, repeating 'It's my fault', over and over into my chest as if saying it a certain number of times would make everything disappear.

It was so odd dealing with that kind of situation. My parent's had always had a stable marriage and I had no idea about how to comfort him. I felt so helpless all those years ago, much like I did then, driving down the pitch black street and trying to prepare a magical speech that would coax the gun away from my best friends head.

I made it to his house with ten minutes to spare. I figured that would be for the best. I gave him an extra five minutes in case he got impatient and another five minutes so I wouldn't have to catch him wrapping his lips around the barrel.

"Stan? Stan!" I screamed, throwing open the door and forgetting about removing my shoes. It didn't matter anymore. I just needed to get to Stan. Now. Before anything happened. I needed to stop him. For once, his threats felt real.

I flung open the door to his room, opening it to pitch darkness. I guess it was better; I took a second to sturdy myself. If I just opened the door to his bloody body, I don't know how I'd live. But I flicked on the light and found Stan quivering against the wall, knees brought up to his chest and holding a lack handgun in a twitching grasp.

"You came..." He said, a neutral expression on his face. I guess all emotion must have flooded out of him. I couldn't begin to guess what went through his mind though All I could picture was Stan at seven, playing with his dog in the snow with a huge smile plastered on his lips. His whole body was shaking. Worst than the time he got the flue and was stuck in bed for two weeks. In fact, he was quivering so badly I doubted he could even get a good aim with his gun. Part of me wanted to hug him, warm him up, but I knew he wasn't cold.

"Of course." I stepped forward, watching how far I could go before Stan got angry with me of frustrated and I spread the process. He'd threaten to do this... just never got past words. I noticed he wasn't really bothered with my advances, so I threw myself against the carpeting floor. My shirt was riding up, and I was pretty sure that my ass crack was hanging out but none of that mattered. I had to keep Stan alive. Now that I was closer to Stan I could see the all over wet sheen of his face. Probably a mix of sweat and tears.

"Stan, you're my best friend. Without you I'd have nothing. I love you, and I'm lost without you in my life. Please don't do this. Please don't." I felt tears welding in my own eyes. I hated how he wouldn't move the gun from it's position against his temple. "Stan... I'll fix everything. I'll make it so the world isn't shit, I promise, just give me the chance. Please don't do this! I swear that I'll fix it all, I swear, just give me this chance... please don't do this..."

"You love me?" He questioned in a hushed tone, and I frantically nodded, repeated the word 'yes' as if it was air to me.

"Yes, yes I love you." I crawled along the floor, trying to judge if I could grab the gun and change the trajectory before Stan got a good shot in. I decided against it, since I feared that he might try shoot as I wrestled him, hitting nerves and paralyzing himself for life. That was worst than death. I couldn't stand knowing that I turned my friend into a vegetable. So I relied on my words, and cursed how articulate I truly was.

"Then kiss me." He interrupted, and I stared dumbfounded.

"Kiss you?" This was hardly the time to get flustered. If a kiss was what would removed the barrel from his temple, then I was more than happy.

"Kiss me." He repeated. I licked my lips, closing the gap between up and kissing him gently. My lips hit his ungracefully. They felt overly thin and rough. He tasted salty from tears and sweat. I couldn't believe I was kissing him, I felt filthy. It wasn't right, he was my best friend, he just didn't feel like he should against me. I couldn't think of anything other than keeping Stan alive. If kissing another boy – my best friend at that – was what it took, I'd do it a thousand times.

We kind of stayed there, and a sudden thought of Stan blowing his brain's out at a moment of sudden passion made me pull back. I just couldn't deal with the thought of his blood splattering against my hair and cheeks as his lips drained of warmth and he fell limp against me.

"Stan..." I begged, yet again. This time I put a hand up to his wrist, pulling the shaky hand down. For all his instability, he was incredibly persistent with his want to hold his arm up high. "Let go..."

"Kyle. Nock it off now." Stan hissed. "I'm – I want to let you know that I love you."

"Tell me that every day," I pleaded, leaning my face inward to kiss him again, but he pushed me back slightly.

"Kyle, listen. I love you. We're destined to be together." He added, and hung his head, black hair covering his expression.

"I'll be with you, every day. Just stay here with me... stay Stan. I need you, you need me, so stay. Just stay," I was repeating myself, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Close your eyes." He ordered, and sobbing – I obeyed. His breath caressed my ear, and I shivered away from it. At least he was breathing. "Keep them closed." I herd the click – the telltale sign he was ready to shoot. "The world's gonna get cleaned, one step at a time, baby. You and me. Always was, always will be. We'll clean all the shit out."

I nodded frantically. Yes, yes, anything, just stay by my side another day. I need my best friend.

I herd the gun shoot, and cried out, digging myself into Stan's shoulder, my face covered in tears and snot. But Stan didn't waver. Instead, I herd his mother's shriek, and the thump of a large body at his door step as it hit the ground, before he turned the revolver and fired again.

_If you've survived this long, you have my undying love! Thanks so much for reading. I know this is sick, but... we've all got a flair for the psychopaths. Besides, good fiction is supposed to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable, right? So please, review. Tell me if I'm shit XD_

_Also, I'm desperate for some South Park Fan Friends. Please, message me! We can talk about the show and write and do all those cool things SPBFs do (South Park Best Friends). As you can tell... none of my friends are into Fanfiction, drawing, writing, or even SP. WTF? _


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey dudes! It's been way too long! So I want to thank you all for your kind reviews, favorites and alerts. You honestly have no idea how happy they make me! I can't believe how any of you read this little story! I was only planning for a one-shot... but I wanted to learn a bit more about what's going on in pretty little Stan's head. _

The next thing I was aware of was my own voice, screeching a filling the brim of the house with audible horror. I felt my throat split in two with the force of my scream and right when I thought it might crack and ooze enough blood for me to choke out of this nightmare, Stan clamped his palm over my jaw.

I herd the clank of metal against the ground as Stan dropped the gun, and his other hand coming up to sport my mouth in it's new closed form. For a brief and terrifying second, I was horrified that he might turn his homicidal tendencies to me. His eyes looked darker than normal, and they lacked that playful innocence that was always present. I missed him that way; this new Stan was different and dangerous.

"Kyle, shut up," He hissed into my ear. "I'm going to get you out of this," His arms snaked around my arms, I gasped for air, and Stan gave my body a tight squeeze. "I love you, and I promise I won't let anything happen to you," he rocked me against him for a few seconds, and I was too shaken to do anything other than shiver in his grasp.

In those blissful moments, while completely engulfed in the presence of pure and innocent Stan, everything seemed normal. Stan was just cradling me because I'd fallen off my mountain bike while we were camping like in fourth grade. Or we'd just awkwardly fell asleep watching another marathon of Terrance and Phillip.

"Now go to my desk and get out a sheet of paper." Stan ordered, never missing a beat. I obeyed, mostly because this new Stan terrified me too much not to. I tried not to look at the mangled body at the foot of Stan's door and instead focused on the task at hand. Paper and pen. I took them out, finding the materials easily because Stan's house was basically mine. I knew everything about him and his life. Well... I thought I did.

"Now write a ransom note." Stan then demanded, rising from the floor and going to the closet. He pulled out a suitcase, tossing in random clothes.

"Stan... they'll know..." My voice sounded much weaker than I imagined and I tried to cough in order to clear it, but that only made my insides rip apart further.

"You think Officer ButtBaby will care?" I could tell he rolled his eyes at that, even though his back was turned to me and I had mental blinders to avoid seeing anything I wouldn't be able to erase.

My hand shook as I uncapped the pen, and placed it firmly on the sheet of notebook paper. For I few seconds I leant all of my weight on the object, as if that could carry the burden of being Stan's Super Best Friend. But all that accomplished was staining my perfectly crisp page.

I rubbed my finger against the blot of ink, trying to smudge it off. Instead I smeared it against my thumb and along the margin of the paper. In the back of my mind I registered Stan saying my name, but I couldn't tell if it was my imagination of life. In face, it all seemed like a dream.

The pen seemed to be a thousand pounds, but I forced it to bend to my will. I didn't pause, even though I consciously had no idea how to start such a threatening letter. As I scribbled worlds without much thought, I noticed that the police probably wouldn't be able to recognize my handwriting anyway. My entire body convulsed.

_I've taken the boy and killed the family. His friend is with him. For 50 million dollars I will return._

Short sweet and to the point. Good enough. The bail was too high for anyone to pay, there was no motive that could pin anyone, and not even a hint as to what was going on. But then again, how could I tell them what was happening if I didn't even know?

I supposed my blinders were on so well that I didn't notice where Stan was until I herd the thump of a body. It wasn't the hard hit that came along with a death, but more along the line of a sack of flour being flipped over.

"Got the keys and a few hundred cash. We'll have to go through the bank to get whatever's on the cards." He explained, and I reflexively turned to him.

Blood doesn't look like it does in movies. It's darker. Dead bodies can't be caught taking small secret breaths, and then walking home to their children and lovers.

My stomach twisted and I vomited next to Stan's bed. He came over, rubbing my back as I coughed and sputtered. I emptied my stomach a second time when I realized the same hand that was now trying to calm me had been playing with a corpse.

"Come on babe," Stan linked his around my waist and pulled me beside him. The note fluttered to the ground, but I didn't have time to pick it up. My legs were too thick and trunk-like to walk, so Stan had to wrestle me through the door. I supposed I hadn't made it any easier when I refused to walk by the bodies of my second parents, but I made up for it by keeping quiet. I didn't yelp when the suitcase collided into my shin, and I didn't even gasp when Stan got aggravated and hit the side of my temple so hard it broke the skin.

_Hey guys! This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I got a lot of reviews asking for a second chapter, and I was a bit curious myself as to what Stan would do next! I'll continue this, mostly because I like writing something so creepy and dark... how sick does that make me? _

_Which reminds me, this story is going to get heavy. Obviously, there's already character death, abuse and suicide mentioned. And it's the second chapter. If it's going to bother you, I suggest another story. _

_Otherwise! Thanks so much for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!_


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